


De Mortuorum Ambulantum Bello

by kuriadalmatia



Series: De Mortuorum Ambulantum Bello [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her mission is to hunt zombies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Mortuorum Ambulantum Bello

**Author's Note:**

> COMMENTS: Unbetaed. Slight spoilers for Season 6. For rebak1tten who wrote: “Prentiss and someone - your choice - Zombie hunters! Romance or not, but I think Prentiss could kick some zombie ass!” Originally written for CM Comment Fic over on LJ
> 
> My first zombie!Fic. Whoot! The title means “The Walking Dead War.” (http://latindiscussion.com/forum/latin/destroy-the-walking-dead.7352/ )
> 
> Feedback always welcome.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.

If one asked Emily Prentiss six months ago what she would be doing on the Fourth of July, the answer would have been simple: have a party at her place so her friends could watch the city’s fireworks in an air conditioned environment. None of them were particularly fond of crowds—too many bad things could happen too easily—so if her apartment was a bit crowded? Well, it certainly beat wailing children and their overheated parents complaining about security, the price of bottled water, and DC’s unforgiving humidity.

It certainly wouldn’t have been this: accepting the reloaded shotgun before leaning out of the speeding van’s window and shooting a zombie’s head off.

Zombies.

Seriously.

 _Goddamn, motherfucking zombies._

There was a long and involved story about just how the Zombie-pocalypse (or whatever catchy name the West Coast broadcasters were giving it now) came about five months ago. Basically, a brilliant scientist (and weren’t they all brilliant?) at the Centers for Disease Control was obsessed with George Romero, creator of _The Night of the Living Dead_ and considered the Godfather of all Zombies. The scientist wanted to pay homage so badly to Romero that he created a very, very nasty virus that mimicked the zombie effect. The scientist (whose name, oddly enough, no one seemed to remember but was generally referred to as “that fucking asshole”) then unleashed his creation.

The virus spread, ravaging the Eastern seaboard within the first two months. Ground Zero, unfortunately, was the CDC itself because That Fucking Asshole (or “T-Fah” as Garcia referred to him) was truly a fucking asshole. The scientists most familiar with T-Fah’s work became zombies and, because Fate really wanted to screw over the scientific community of the United States of America, the first six disease centers—all on the East Coast—who received samples of the zombie virus became infected almost immediately. 

From there? It just went downhill.

Reid theorized that the virus was spread either via direct contact or ingestion (probably both) but it was not air-borne. So far, the virus hadn’t spread west of the Mississippi, and the US military had setup a hardcore border along the river in hopes of sparing the West. 

That was how Emily Prentiss and her team of three ended up hunting down zombies on July 4th.

If Emily had been asked who she wanted as partners on this pursuit when this all started, she would have chosen Hotch, Morgan and Rossi. Hotch, because he was the best shot in the BAU and a proven leader. Morgan, because he was the second best shot in the BAU and he was very resourceful. Rossi, because he was the game hunter of the BAU and was an excellent tactician. They were strong capable leaders in their own right with the ability to function as a whole with minimal ego clashes. Yet Hotch’s first priority was his son and sister-in-law. Morgan’s priority was his family in Chicago. Rossi still had family in Commack. JJ had Will and Henry to take care of. 

The virus had no cure in sight, which was why Emily used every last favor she had with her mother and Interpol to get those people out of the US, even though the entire country was under UN quarantine. Emily gave her own golden ticket to Delcan after JJ and Will swore they would take care of him.

So Emily’s team consisted of Reid, who was frighteningly fast in reloading bullet cartridges, fixing busted firearms, and improvising new weapons. Next was Anderson, who drove terrifyingly fast and perhaps could have been a NASCAR driver if he hadn’t chosen the FBI. Finally, there was Garcia, who was still their tech goddess extraordinaire even if she was riding shotgun and swearing that if Anderson took one more hairpin turn, cookies weren’t going to be the only thing that was going to be tossed in the front seat. 

The four of them didn’t really have the family ties that the other members of the BAU had. Even though Reid was loyal to his mother, his reasoning was simple. What good could he do while guarding her in Vegas? Here, on Emily’s team, he could try to make a dent in the undead. What little family Anderson had was all on the West Coast. While Emily would have preferred Garcia go with the other escaping members of the BAU, the tech analyst refused. 

_“I’ve already buried you once, Emily Prentiss,” Garcia snapped as she threw her suitcase in the back of their van. “I’m not burying you again. And by God, I’m going to make the bastard who sullied one of the best cult flicks ever **pay** for it.”_

On paper, her team probably looked weak. In reality? They kicked massive amounts of ass. 

The biggest challenge was that their targets weren’t run-of-the-mill, mindless zombies shown on film. Oh no. These zombies still could drive cars and fly planes (which Emily wished she didn’t know because God only knew how many private jets and commercial aircraft were shot down for fear of the disease spreading). They were functioning on some level in that many still went to work or school; the McDonald’s manned entirely by the undead had forever ended her team’s cravings for anything from the Golden Arches. However, zombies weren’t particularly good at what they did, especially driving. They swerved like drunks on the road, which made Anderson’s skills behind the wheel all more impressive.

Emily lined up her next shot: a zombie driving a vintage Corvette with the roof down (and, honestly, if the undead was aware enough to drive, one would think it would be aware enough to keep the damn roof on). The first bullet blew off the zombie’s head. The second and third toasted the engine. The car veered hard on the expressway and crashed into a retaining wall, bursting into flames.

No one cheered or said, _Good shot!_ This wasn’t a video game, although the bit about the head shot being the quickest way to down one was true. This was their job. 

Hunt. 

Survive. 

Hunt some more.

“Ten miles ahead, there’s a sporting goods store off the exit,” Reid announced as he messed with one of the Glock magazines that had given them trouble earlier. He still preferred his S&W over any other weapon, but he was such a damn good shot with whatever type of gun in his hands. It made Emily wonder if the man really _did_ used to fail his firearms qualifications on a regular basis or if all Morgan’s joking had been because Reid _was_ so damn good.

“If you’re talking about the Bass Pro Shop at Exit 26B, Boy Wonder, you’re SOL,” Garcia replied as her fingers flew over the laptop keyboard. Of the four of them, she was the only one who didn’t carry a firearm. She refused, saying that even if it was a zombie and therefore an enemy, it was still a person. So Reid conjured up a mini-flame thrower for her, so in case she got in trouble, she could at least keep the zombie at a distance. “According to local news, it was looted weeks ago.”

“I doubt they took the pool supplies,” he replied.

Emily glanced over and saw Reid’s ever-present notebook attached to the back of the driver’s seat. Chemistry was never her strong suit, but she knew chemical equation shapes when she saw them even if she had no clue what it all meant. “What are you thinking?”

The man barely looked up from his task. “IEDs. I can rig them so we can use them like grenades.” He paused before meeting Emily’s gaze. “Bullets are going to be harder and harder to acquire. Locals aren’t going to give up rounds even if there is a government mandate that they have to stock federal agents on demand. I would suggest compound bows and arrows, but Garcia’s the only one with archery training …”

“How did you know that?” Garcia interrupted with a gasp as she whipped around in her seat. “I thought there was that no-profiling rule!”

“Truth or Dare on the flight back from Amarillo, Texas after catching that serial arsonist targeting cattle,” he answered. “It was your response to ‘craziest thing you’ve ever done for a fandom.’ I believe it was for _The Hunger Games._ ” He shrugged before continuing, “Anyway, the mechanics of archery is different from those of firearms. While I’m sure we could eventually develop some proficiency, we don’t have the time or the resources to do so. Hence, IEDs.”

For a moment, the compartmentalization that Emily Prentiss was known for broke down. She remembered those hours on the jet after that case. Remembered thinking, _I can’t believe we’re playing Truth or Dare when there’s no alcohol … on the jet no less!_ Remembered Hotch’s confession about coin collecting and Rossi’s skills as an amateur beer brewer. Remembered thinking, _Some guy setting bulls on fire because he thought he was driving out Baʿal Zebûb has to be one of the most fucked up things we’ve encountered in the BAU._

Compared to hunting zombies? Emily would gladly take the Beelzebub Burner (and what a stupid name _that_ was!) over taking out Zombie Number Whatever (because while Reid kept count of things like that, she never wanted to know how many they actually killed). 

Suddenly, she felt Reid’s hand brush gently down the back of her arm. The comforting gesture immediately snapped her out of her reverie. She looked around the van. Garcia stared out the window. Anderson frowned heavily as he concentrated on the road in front of him. Reid looked regretful for even mentioning that conversation. 

Emily knew she had to get them refocused, because thinking about the past did nothing but make the present that much harder to bear. It was her duty as leader, and she wondered how the hell Hotch managed to do it for all those years and make it look so damn effortless. So she took a deep breath and forced herself to project the air of confidence and leadership, even as she longed for the days of the old BAU.

“We won’t have enough room in the van for IEDs,” Emily told him as she nodded to the back area, which despite looking like a huge disarray of stuff, was meticulously organized with their supplies. 

When they weren’t facing down the undead, they were the target of looters; Emily never thought she’d see the day when a twelve-ounce can of Spam was such a highly-valued commodity. Their eight-passenger van had been stripped down to the driver’s seat, the front passenger seat and the bench seat behind the driver. They never knew when they could restock their food or weapons, so they kept as much as possible in the space in the back.

“The store should have some leftover camping gear,” Reid said, but his fingers still touched her elbow. “Bungee cords and the like. We need to expand our storage capacity anyway.”

“You want to put a turtle shell on top of this thing?” Anderson asked and then laughed. “That’s so _National Lampoon,_ man.”

Emily cocked her head a little, unsure of what Anderson was referring to. Her gaps in pop culture references were nowhere near as egregious as Reid’s, but she had them. She didn’t grow up in the States and, while she had access to American movies, there were still some sly references that she didn’t get. Two months ago, she would have never let on that she was clueless. Her pride wouldn’t allow her. Yet now? There were things to be prideful about, but not getting a _National Lampoon_ or turtle joke weren’t it. 

“It’s a hard-sided storage case designed for the roof of a vehicle,” Reid explained. “We can store surplus items there.”

“No IEDs on the roof,” Anderson warned.

“Not the assembled ones,” Reid huffed but his tone was teasing. He released Emily’s elbow and went back to loading bullets into the magazine. “As I was saying, lighter items go up top. We can increase our storage capacity by ten to fifteen percent, depending on the model. However, if we need more storage, we should consider changing vehicles.”

That suggestion earned a resounding, “No!” from Anderson and Garcia.

“School buses and RVs are a bitch to maneuver,” Anderson went on. “A camper on a hitch is asking for trouble. This is a full-sized van that doesn’t require diesel. If we graduate to something bigger, then we’ll have to work up a whole new defense strategy.”

“True,” Reid conceded yet didn’t elaborate.

Although Emily knew Reid quite well from all the time they spent together in the BAU, living with someone 24-7 for almost two months gave her insights that she didn’t have before.

Emily knew that Reid refrained from pressing his point, because it probably included the cold hard fact that this _De Mortuorum Ambulantum Bello_ (as Reid so colorfully called it) wasn’t going to end anytime soon. Reid was a forward-thinker, always coming up with different scenarios and resolutions. It was why his notebook was so important to him … to _them_ … if they were going to survive. There was a reason he was broaching the subject now, but the fact he didn’t continue with his argument meant that it was something he felt that could be addressed later, but he wanted to at least plant the seed of thought. 

“So what do you say, Em?” Anderson asked as he glanced at Emily in the rearview mirror. “Bass Pro for a turtle shell, DIY IEDs, and whatever else hasn’t been looted?”

She mentally assessed the situation. Reid wouldn’t have suggested the pit stop unless he felt it was necessary. It meant Emily and Anderson prowling about in a damaged store like they’ve done so many times before while Reid and Garcia … no … wait. It would be all four of them in the shop because Reid knew what he could substitute for the missing items and Garcia had mentioned the need for some type of portable chargers for their electronics. 

So it meant all of them out in the open, where an ambush would more than likely take place, whether it be by zombie or human. 

Still, Reid had a very valid point about ammunition and alternative weapons. The fact that Anderson and Garcia weren’t arguing about stopping meant they knew Reid was right.

Emily took another deep breath. She adjusted the grip on her shotgun. And because her team just happened to be a bunch of Star Trek geeks, she said, “Make it so.”

It was mad. 

It was crazy. 

It was insane.

It was surreal.

It was their lives.

~~~~~~ Finis ~~~~~~


End file.
